


the things we carry, they run deep.

by snowpiercers



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 02, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:33:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29312649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowpiercers/pseuds/snowpiercers
Summary: "But somewhere between walking into the Vacaville prison for the first time and leaving Atlanta behind in a private plane, the old Holden had crumbled away. And this shell of a man in the mirror is what's left."After the events of season 2, Holden Ford reels from his unchecked panic disorder, the guilt of Atlanta, and his growing isolation.
Relationships: Holden Ford & Bill Tench, Holden Ford & Debbie Mitford, Wendy Carr & Holden Ford, Wendy Carr & Holden Ford & Bill Tench
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	the things we carry, they run deep.

When Holden Ford finally brings himself to look into his bathroom mirror, the man who stares back at him is a stranger. A man he has never seen nor wishes to see again. He takes in the pallid, sallow cheeks, the unkept hair, the sunken purple splotches sponged into the skin underneath his eyes. He is a far cry from the man he was. The neatly-combed head he always had, not a hair out of place. The bright, doe-eyed face he once wore, eyes that glinted with curiosity and wonder. He doesn't know how it's possible his eyes have changed, but somehow, the once brilliant, once illuminated blue has dimmed to a quiet, crackling grey. Holden doesn't know who this man is, but he knows that he hates him.

The thoughts that prey on his head are ruthless, never once letting up. But he knows that that's what the truth can be like: cruel and unforgiving.

_Look at yourself. You're a fucking catastrophe._

_You think I don't know that?_

Holden wants nothing more than to return to the shelter of his bed. He imagines hiding under the covers as the days and weeks turn around him, drifting in and out of thoughtless, dreamless sleep. He longs to be uncaring and effortless. If he's even capable of it.

He splashes water on his face, disappointed to find the man in his reflection is still there afterwards. He runs his hands through his hair, trying to maintain some semblance of care. He feels his jaw, stubble prickling his fingers. He never shows his face anywhere without shaving, or at least that was the old him. But somewhere between walking into the Vacaville prison for the first time and leaving Atlanta behind in a private plane, the old Holden had crumbled away. And this shell of a man in the mirror is what's left.

Holden remembers the flight all too well. As he stared out the window, at the expanse of the Georgia city stretched out below, he heard the cries of Atlanta's murdered children calling out to him. All he could hear was their screaming, their wails of agony, and he felt like a monster, leaving them in the dust of his private plane. But as Atlanta disappeared under the clouds, their cries fell to a lingering silence. And the silence, oh god, the silence was the worst. It suffocated his ears, torturous.

The cases were closed, forgotten. _Take a victory lap_ , Bill had said.

His victory lap for the past weekend had consisted of staring at a new spot on the wall in his apartment each time, drinking until his head dulled. He slept for 12 or more hours at once, and then woke up feeling like that was nowhere near enough. He skipped a meal here and there. Not that he meant to, but all of a sudden it was dark and it took too much to set out the ingredients and start the the stove.

He decides not to shave today. _What's one day?_

He hears Bill in his head, from months ago. _On Monday morning, you're going to present yourself as able, responsible, and fucking professional_.

Holden has a job to do. A career he's slaved away for decades to attain. He has people counting on him—Bill, Wendy, Gunn, the mothers of the victims—and he has to do right by them. He can't let them down again.

_They already hate you anyway._

_I know._

_And why would they think any different? You're intolerable._

_I know._

He pulls on his suit jacket and steps outside of his apartment. He takes a deep breath. _Just get through today._ _Promise yourself you can get through today._

* * *

"You look like ass," Bill says when Holden walks in.

"Thanks," he mutters. He mentally notes that Bill doesn't look a whole lot better himself.

"Are you hungover?" Bill asks, accusatory.

Holden is too tired to feel insulted. "No, I'm not."

"Then, the hell's wrong with you?"

"I don't know, Bill."

Bill shakes his head and puts on his glasses, flipping through his paperwork. Holden digs his nails into his thigh, willing himself to get it together. _You promised you could get through today_.

He can't quite believe he and Bill used to have a friendly relationship. They could bounce ideas off of each other naturally, tell what the other was thinking, and have a laugh together. It was something Holden missed about the early days. They were energized by the potential of their project. It was uncharted waters, the birth of a new idea. Bill pretended like it was a chore to put up with Holden and his crazy whims, but Holden knew Bill felt that excitement too.

Their pure little project has morphed into something that sickened Holden. He hated the FBI bureaucracy of it all, the eyes of OPR hanging over their heads. He hated arguing with the deaf ears of the DA's and local police, who were always skeptical of their fancy "shrink" methods. He hated getting dragged through the grueling months in Atlanta, under the public scrutiny, the politics, finding more bodies with every lead. Only for the DA to charge Williams for two of the twenty-eight. And he had no answers to give to Camille Bell, to Venus Taylor, to any of them.

And now, Holden can barely read his partner. They had been icy to each other since OPR, since Vacaville. They worked well together in Atlanta, like always, but it wasn't personal like before. They didn't spend hours chatting at the bar at the end of the day. There were no more dinner parties, no more asking about each other's lives. It was simply work. Serial killers and motives and murder. And after the work day ended, nobody wanted anything to do with Holden.

_I don't want anything to do with myself either._

Wendy walked out of her office, and Holden felt her eyes on him, a glare of scathing judgment. With her, he felt like a walking liability. Like he was set to explode at any minute in time and Wendy was waiting for the blast. She picks up a newspaper on the desk, and Holden catches the headline in bleeding black letters.

"THE MOTHERS OF ATLANTA'S MURDERED CHILDREN: WAYNE WILLIAMS IS INNOCENT."

Holden's stomach turns. His throat aches for a valium.

"At least that disaster is over for us. We get to continue with our research," Wendy says.

"It wasn't a disaster for Gunn and Webster," Bill says. "That's what matters."

"Frankly, Bill, I don't care what Gunn and Webster think. Chasing every rabbit hole case that comes your way when we haven't even come close to finishing our research is counterproductive. And now that Altanta's happened, I presume you and Holden are going to be flying out every couple of weeks."

 _Please, no._ Holden thinks to himself. _I can't do this all over again._

"Is this unit getting recognition and priority not a good thing?" Bill says.

"When we haven't even established a solid foundation of the very tactic we are using?" Wendy says. "Have you read these articles? People are questioning the FBI's methods, questioning William's innocence. The mothers of these victims are coming out and claiming you unfairly targeted Wayne-"

"That's bullshit and you know it," Bill scoffs.

Holden feels his heart beating in his chest. He clenches his fists and tries to slow his lungs. _Take a deep breath._

"Bill, I have to question whether these cases, without researched evidence to prove our methods, hurt or help the unit. The FBI director may be happy but the families of the victims are not."

_Shut up. Shut up. Shut up._

But Wendy continues, "And who can blame them? When the cases of their slaughtered children are dropped?"

Holden stands up, the quick sliding of the chair getting Bill and Wendy's attention. He leaves the room in a haste, and once he's out of their sight, he breaks into a run to the bathroom. He feels like he's running through the crowds of an Atlanta vigil. The weight of a white cross across his shoulder, panic spiraling in his gut. His head spins. His vision in vertigo. He opens the bathroom stall door and gets on his knees.

_Wayne might be Atlanta's 30th victim._

_I can promise you that's not true._

_Careful about making promises, Agent Ford._

Holden vomits into the toilet.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fic! (and it's a bit of a depressing vent, sorry about that.) 
> 
> I love the character of Holden so much, and I really want to explore his mental health and journey after season 2, especially since his anxiety disorder is mostly dropped in the show. I'm also just desperate for Mindhunter to continue so I'm going to just supply my own stories to delude myself into thinking Fincher will continue it.
> 
> Any feedback and comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
